4 hours passed. Had some bland dinner (it was good but it just lacked taste due to how I was feeling at the moment) and watched Under the Dome until I found something else to do. I was going to research more on Gertrude Macabellow and send the information to my friends at school. Bing was my hero at the time and I searched for her name. Her biography came up on the front page at the source of Wikipedia. It said:
Gertrude Darluth Macabellow (born 1949-1976) is an American poet known for her gloomy collections of poetry referring back to her harsh childhood. Known for her low budget works such as Plowing Down the Hag and Whips Are the Seed, Lashes Are the Plants, and Flesh Is the Soil, she remained independent and socially active all of her life, promoting her books to the public in 1975. The most controversial part of her life at the time was when she murdered five of the people that she claimed bullied her inexplicably, one by one every day in the same week. When the police caught up to her records in 1976, she was found in her living room dead with her favorite typewriter under her arms, which we’re all assuming she killed herself with.
Then my sister Rebecca came into my room, looking worried. And she said, “I heard about what happened today in Mrs. Hallzheimer’s classroom. It’s all over Twitter and on WBNC. You know they put everything on there.”
“Something’s weird happening. It’s like they’re trying to give me a sign that this dead poet is near. Harassing me. Trying to tell me something.”
“Something like what?”
“Like she’s trying to give me insight about the murders she caused. First was this poem that was typed up last night by itself and then the tree that fell on the classroom that left a letter M on the front on a piece of paper.” I showed her the typed-up paper and the letter with the M. “I know; weird, right?”
“Yeah, it is weird. Well, whatever happened today hopefully it won’t happen again. By the way, is dinner ready?”
“Oh, yeah. Mom cooked up some Brussel sprouts, chicken fried rice, and some barbecue chicken.”
“Not chicken again.”
“Better believe it.”
Rebecca walked gloomily to the kitchen while I proceeded with my research upon Gertrude. I looked up her bibliography and more encounters with the people she loathed. All of her friends’ names weren’t listed, but they did include that one of them were off-scot free of her murders. It would’ve been six, but since the individual has been so generous to Gertrude (despite hanging around the most devious clique) that she’d let her go.
She’s kind, really, really kind. She just couldn’t take the constant naughty vibes from the other girls.
Then I had another idea.
I decided to look up information about the Smith-Corona. I saw various variants of the Electra. One with a beige finish. One with an exclusive golden finish. Then there was hers. I was about to click the link…
“THE CURIOSITY WILL CEASE!!!!!!!!!” That’s what the computer exclaimed along with the image of a disintegrated face. I threw my computer down in a panic and I was hearing various voices in my cranium. Woman voices. Voices that would note a person as schizophrenic. I dropped down to the floor, curling up into a ball and covering my eardrums. It wouldn’t conceal! It won’t conceal!
REGRET IT, REGRET IT, REGRET IT!
GET A LIFE, YOU WORTHLESS COW!
YOU’RE A HOPELESS MISTAKE! NOBODY LOVES YOU!
Those voices will make great vibes turn into poofs of fairy dust in a split-second. It was just so harsh, so nightmarish, so wrong. Overpowering those unforgettable noises were the typewriter keys rapidly typing on a sheet of paper.
Then everything ceased.
I suddenly noticed that I was awoken from my dreaming phase and that the time was 11:07, the exact same time I woke up last night. Well, I wasn’t asleep and the typewriter was preventing me from doing so.
I walked out of my room and headed towards the typewriter yet again for another night and saw (of course) another typed-up piece of paper which turned out to be a poem. By the one and only, Gertrude D. Macabellow.